


Nothing Is Wrong

by a_workinprogress



Series: i'm so sorry about this mr badboyhalo [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Hurt No Comfort, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29494467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_workinprogress/pseuds/a_workinprogress
Summary: Bad can’t kill himself, so he deals with the pain a different way.Huge trigger warning for self-harm.
Relationships: Skeppy’s mentioned like once but it’s in the same universe as the last one mkay, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Series: i'm so sorry about this mr badboyhalo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156031
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	Nothing Is Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended listening: Nothing Is Wrong by Analog Rebellion and I Can’t Wait for You to Die by Elvis Depressedly 
> 
> I am once again projecting onto bbh🧍

Bad frowned at the mirror hanging over the sink. He stared into the eyes of his mirrored counterpart and tried to smile, succeeding only in twisting his mouth into an expression of pain. 

Today had been a bad day. 

Not that any other day tended to be good, but he didn’t want to kill himself _every_ day. 

Only most. 

Bad frowned again, his eyes darting down. He blinked and steadied himself, grabbing onto the sink for support. His hands were shaking. 

It wasn’t that anything especially terrible had happened today. It was just one of those days where you wished you’d never woken up, and were tempted to make sure you’d never do it again. Suicide wasn’t the answer. It was a question and the answer was _maybe._ Maybe he wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn’t have to put on a happy face. Maybe he’d get to be selfish for once and _rest._

Maybe not, though. 

He’d promised Skeppy that he’d record with him tomorrow, so today the answer was _no_. Not being able to kill yourself didn’t mean that you couldn’t do something productive. Productive, yeah. Ending his life was certainly a large task, but smaller ones could also be satisfying to achieve. 

Satisfying was certainly one way to describe what he did. 

It was satisfying, though. Afterwards he always felt better. Dopamine or something, he’d read. 

God. What was wrong with him? 

It’d started small. Scratching his arm until it bled. It never looked that bad when he did it, but the day after it’d be a red mess. Disgusting? Yes. Satisfying? _Definitely._

The scars were subtle. They were visible, of course, but they didn’t resemble anything normal people would consider self-harm. At the time he hadn’t even considered it self-harm. Self-harm was when you cut yourself, right? He just scratched his arms to distract himself. Yeah. 

He didn’t have a problem. 

Then it went further. It had been a bad day, quite like this one. It had been one of those days where you feel like your friends would feel better without you. One of those days where you genuinely wanted to be dead. One of those days where you could go through with it. One of those days where you almost did. 

He hadn’t. 

What he had done instead was remove the blade from a razor and punish himself for daring to exist. 

He didn’t like wearing shorts anyway. 

The front of his ankles had been through a lot by now. He would let them heal, and then he’d be back. The best and worst part about cutting there was that the wound healed and the scars faded fast. That meant he could cut the same places over and over again, without needing to use more skin. As long as he wore high socks it was fine. No one could see. 

...It also meant that the scars didn’t look that bad. They always faded away. What was left didn’t look like they had felt. Every time he was clean for too long they ended up barely being visible. That’s when he’d cut the deepest, to make up for lost time. Then it’d be okay for a while. Only a while though. 

Today had been a bad day. 

The day he started on his arm had also been a bad day. 

He remembered the way he’d hesitated before putting the blade to his pale skin. The way his arm shook. The way he hesitated right until the blade drew blood. It burned and it was wonderful. He wasn’t scared anymore. The first cut had been fairly deep. Not as deep as many others he’d come to create, but it was still clearly visible. He’d taken a deep breath when he came to the realisation that he _liked it._ It wasn’t some weird fetish thing, but he liked the feeling. The pain wasn’t _good,_ but it made him feel _better._ He was punishing himself and felt less guilty about his existence. The guilt drained with the blood. 

Not all of it, though. The guilt never fully disappeared 

It was still nice to have less of it, though. 

Since then, the fact that he mainly wore turtlenecks and hoodies had been turned into a necessity. Not that he’d wear anything else if he had the opportunity. He’d never had a great relationship with his body. That was the reason he didn’t do many face cam streams. 

Today had been a bad day. 

The sink felt cold under his hands. 

He let go of the sink and reached into the drawer under it. He took out a small metal box and placed the content on the sink, together with a towel and disinfectant. He took a deep breath, rolled up his sleeves, and put cold metal to his skin. The blade was still sharp and he felt it easily slice up his arm. He breathed out. It felt right. Better. 

The blood bubbled up to the surface and slowly dropped down his arm into the bowl of the sink. It was so red. 

Today had been a bad day. 

He put the blade to his skin again, pushing down harder this time. A small gasp escaped him as he felt the cold burn of pain. It was deep. 

Good. 

The blood came even faster this time. The drops of blood painting more and more of the sink crimson. His breathing quickened as he once again prepared himself to cut into his arm. This time he went fast and deep. Multiple times. Three quick but deep cuts. The blood was almost a stream at this point. He cut once more. Red. 

He brought the blade back and forth multiple times, not as deeply as before. This time he just wanted to cover more of the surface. God. It hurt so much and he felt so much better. His breathing calmed down and he realised he had to stop. Sighing, he turned the tap on. He saw the bloody water pour down the drain and mourned it. Hesitating, he put the arm under the faucet, hissing as the water hit his arm. It stung, but it was nothing compared to what was gonna come. He turned the water off, poured disinfectant on the towel, and put it against his skin. God. That hurt. He could barely stay still as it _burned_. It was ironically the most painful part of cutting. He relaxed as it stopped hurting and rummaged around for the ripped up white T-shirt he used the wrap around his arm. 

The tee was stained from usage and the blood almost immediately showed through the fabric. He smiled and rolled down the sleeve of his black turtleneck. The best part about wearing black was that stains weren’t really a problem. 

He felt better now. He also felt a little lightheaded, but that wasn’t unexpected. At least he didn’t need to go to the hospital. That was _not_ something he wanted. With the amount of scars he had, they might not let him go. 

He’d rather die. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this instead of uh. Doing what’s described in the fic. Be proud of me? 
> 
> It’s very much based on my problems. Relapsed recently :(( 
> 
> This made me feel better?? In my opinion reading and writing stuff like this is better than you know. Doing it. 
> 
> Comments and requests are appreciated, but not required. Just you being here is enough. 
> 
> I'm proud of you. Love you <3


End file.
